


No Pill's Gonna Cure My Ill

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Hospital, Henry Mills (Once Upon a Time) is a Little Shit, emma the nurse and killian the rock star
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:26:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9467300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: killian jones, rock star extraordinaire and the 2014 people's sexiest man alive makes it a habit to visit the local children's hospital every tuesday. and emma, pediatric nurse, has changed her schedule so that she works any day but tuesday. why can't she be nicer to him? well, henry, everyone's favorite patient, plans to get to find out why.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is being posted here upon request! do excuse the shabby editing, this fic was kind of accidental and in answer to a couple of sweet prompts. i may add to it later, i'm not really sure. perhaps if i get another excellent prompt!

* * *

Tuesday. It was always on a Tuesday.

So what the hell was he doing here on a Monday?

“Ladies,” Killian Jones smiled. He had a guitar in a soft case slung across his back and a beanie pulled down low on his head. Emma closed her eyes so she wouldn’t be seen rolling them at the way the entire nursing station visibly brightened; even Nurse Lucas primped her hair a bit as Killian came strolling into their area, hands in his pockets and a half-grin on his face.  


Until he saw Emma. 

“Oh, uh. Hello, Miss Swan,” he mumbled. Before she could so much as mumble in reply, he had walked a wide berth around her and headed into the employee break room.  


“I just do not understand why you can’t be nicer to him,” Aurora said. She was leaning against the Pyxis with her arms laying atop each other, a mug of coffee resting on her elbow. “He is like, the nicest guy. Not at _all_ what you’d expect.”  


Everyone else agreed, a few mutinously and while tossing Emma disgruntled looks, before the day shift charge nurse barked at everyone to get back to charting.

Silently, Emma thanked the charge, leaving the station to find a computer as far away from the action as possible until her next round of meds were due.

The last thing she wanted was another awkward encounter with Killian Jones, superstar.

She figured it ought to be easy enough to avoid him for the next…checking her watch and noticing that it was only two o’clock, she sighed heavily. Five and a half hours until her shift ended. 

Hopefully, he wouldn’t pop in on a Monday anymore. After all, she’d changed her schedule so that she wouldn’t work on Tuesdays for a reason.  


Anyway, she hoped they’d be able to stay out of each other’s ways until she was off.

And she might have actually pulled it off, if it weren’t for her favorite patient.

“Hey, Henry,” Emma said as she entered his private room, the one they saved for VIPs. While he was definitely important to _her_ , it was his mother’s status as a huge contributor to the hospital’s newest wing that ensured that Henry always had the best stuff. She eyed the clock above the door and came over to his bed, sitting down on the edge of it and brushing his hand with her fingers. “How’re we feeling?”  


“Eh,” he said, coughing weakly. It tore at Emma’s heart seeing him like that–Henry was such a vibrant and good kid. She didn’t necessarily believe anyone ever _deserved_ illness, but Henry was the least deserving of all, if anyone up there was keeping track.  


“Well, your breathing treatment is on its way, so you’ll be feeling better soon. Do you want something for the pain?”  


“Nah, I can manage,” he said. She smiled softly at him, leaning forward to ruffle his hair. He was fourteen, but she didn’t give a shit. He was such a good kid, but a slight defect in his diaphragm at birth had left his lungs weak and underdeveloped. He’d been in and out of hospitals ever since he was a little kid; even when Emma started at Children’s eight years before, Henry had already been a mainstay. 

By the third time he’d been admitted for acute exacerbation of asthma, Emma was ready to call it quits, thinking she wasn’t cut out to work with kids. Funnily enough, it had been Henry’s hard-ass mom Regina who’d put a stop to that.

“He talks about you at home, Miss Swan,” Regina had told Emma all that time ago. “Says you’re just like one of the magical princesses in his books he loves so much. He specifically asked for you this time, and whatever my son wants, he gets. Besides.” And here, Regina had actually softened, letting a crack in her very severe facade show, which Emma had figured was practically a gift, to see something like that.  “You may be young, but you’ve got raw talent. Not everyone is cut out to be a pediatric nurse, but you seem to take to it well.” Then it was like Regina had noticed she’d become human for a second there; she straightened and set her lips in a prim line, her eyebrow arching in challenge–something Emma had observed probably served her well in her time as the creative director for a large record label. “I suspect whatever upbringing you had gives you insight into what it’s like to be small and alone in a hospital. Whatever the reason, you shouldn’t squander what you’ve been given, Miss Swan. You put my son at ease, and you never show to the kids that any of this bothers you. Plus, you got me to be quiet when I was yelling during our first time meeting, so the parents obviously listen to you as well. Anyway. You’re good, and you’ll get even better. Don’t waste it.”   


That had been about the only time Regina had said anything remotely complimentary to Emma in eight years, but Emma did notice that Regina didn’t treat her with disdain like everyone else, including most of the doctors. Besides, she figured the bigger compliment was that every single time Henry had to come to the hospital for a treatment or worse, for an episode, they made sure that Emma was his nurse. 

Anyway, Emma hated that he was there, but she loved having him as a patient. Unlike his adoptive mother, he was sweet and full of joy, and just fun to be around. She figured if she ever had to have a kid, she’d want it to be like Henry.

She’d probably have to have sex for that to happen, though.

“So, you never told me about _Romeo and Juliet_ ,” Emma said, bustling over to take his blood pressure before the respiratory therapist arrived. She fastened the cuff around his too-skinny bicep like she’d done a thousand times before, and he dutifully lifted without being told like _he’d_ done a thousand times before.  


“It was okay,” he said doubtfully. “I mean, I think I got it. It kind of blows my mind that they were like, my age. And it all seems like a bunch of unavoidable angst to me, but I guess the death stuff was pretty cool.”  


The moment Henry stopped speaking, she heard some furious Mumford & Sons-esque guitar strumming in the distance.

_Speaking of unavoidable angst._

Henry sat up suddenly, his eyes going wide and his freckles even seeming to get brighter as he grinned.

“Dude,” Henry said, turning to Emma as she studiously tried to avoid him. “Why is he here today? You didn’t tell me he was here!”  


“Who?” Emma said, knowing the clueless act wouldn’t work. Henry was way too smart for that.

“Who,” he scoffed. “Tall, good-looking English guy, likes to come down here whenever he’s in town, crazy-famous celeb? Star of your favorite movie trilogy of all time? Dashing pirate guy? My fave RT is in love with him?”  


“Who’m I in love with?” Ruby demanded as she walked in. “Heya, Henry, Emma.”  


“Killian Jones,” Henry said matter-of-factly as Emma returned Ruby’s greeting.  


“Killian Jones,” Ruby said in an affected girly voice. She put the back of her hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon. “Just saw him in the hall, I told him to come ‘round when we’re done.”  


“Aww,” Henry said, grinning.   


“No distractions, Mr. Mills,” Ruby scolded, wagging her finger at everyone’s favorite patient. “You done here, Em?”  


“Yeah, he’s a little hypertensive, you want me to hold off on his meds?”  


“He’s just excited at the sex bomb singing old sea shanties next door.”  


_Aren’t we all_ , Emma thought mutinously. Out loud, she said, “Uh, sure, whatever. I’ll be back to check on you after…your visit.” Ruby and Henry exchanged significant glances, but Emma chose to ignore them, slinging her stethoscope around her neck and rushing out before she could run into any wayward good-looking English celebs who’d starred in her favorite blockbuster pirate movie trilogy that she’d maybe, sort of, kind of once made out with in one of the supply closets down on the third floor two years before.

* * *

After checking in on the rest of her patients and diligently charting all vitals, meds administered, breath sounds, labs received, I&Os, and one round of vomiting for the poor toddler in 412, Emma did her best to avoid going back into Henry’s room until she could be certain one Killian Jones was done doing his good-guy routine for the week. 

It wasn’t like he was there _every_ Tuesday; he was still very much in demand despite his heyday of swashbuckling having ended with the third and final _Marauders’ Vengeance!_ film several years’ previous. Plus he had like, worldwide premieres and late-night appearances and stuff; he kept pretty busy taking photo ops and smiling pretty for the numerous cameras in his life.

Despite being a darling with the gossip rags, it wasn’t generally bandied about that Killian Jones, 2014′s _Sexiest Man Alive_ was a frequent visitor to the Storybrooke Children’s Hospital in his adopted home town in Maine. That was one thing Emma had always appreciated about him (aside from his face)–he could have easily used the fact that he was a giant goofball with the kids and had been coming by when he could to his advantage. But he didn’t. In fact, Emma had never seen so much as a mention of it on TMZ. It was like the kids were content to keep him to themselves, and he was content to just come in every once in a while, sing some songs (and honestly, fuck him for that, too–was it necessary that he be talented in _everything_?), flirt with the nursing staff, and occasionally make out with some of them.

Okay, so as far as she knew, she was the only one he’d done that with. And it had been the one time–a moment of weakness, and because of Henry, too. He’d had a really bad episode, like. His breathing had been terrible and then terribly, he’d stopped breathing at all. Nothing was working. Regina had looked so bad off she was just standing in the corner, watching helplessly while the crash cart barged into Henry’s private room. Emma still recalled that awful day with utter clarity–the blue tint to Henry’s lips, the way his little chest had shown every rib in sharp relief, he was so thin and pale. The triumphant exhale when he’d rallied. The tears in Emma’s eyes when he smiled weakly at his mother, who was crying. 

The way she’d walked very calmly out of his room, down the hallway, and over to the elevator. Gotten in, punched a random button that took her to the third floor. Walked out into the other unit in a daze, looking for somewhere to quietly fall apart. 

Had seen Killian Jones coming out of some kid’s room, his eyes lighting up the moment they made eye contact. His flirty, I’ve-got-something-good-for-you,-Swan smile lifting the corners of his mouth in a lazy way. 

She’d walked up to him, grabbed the buttons on his shirt, and hauled him into the nearest supply closet. Slammed the door shut behind them. Ignored his soft and urgent, “Emma, what happened, you look-” and covered his mouth with hers. Then covered his body with hers. 

After maybe ten minutes (she _still_ couldn’t tell if it had felt like three seconds or three months), she stopped abruptly, for no reason other than his hands had started to wander and hers had, too; a gentle squeeze of one breast and fingers dancing on the small of her back, snaking down the waistband of her scrubs had her panting and wanting more. She knew he was into her, she knew it; she’d always just ignored it because he was famous, he couldn’t possibly be up to anything good, right? Despite Ruby’s insistence that he was different with her, that his outrageous raillery with all of the other nurses turned into something a little gentler and a lot more genuine whenever Emma was in the room.

Anyway, she’d pushed away from him, about to say–she didn’t know to this day–and just stood there staring at the door handle behind him until he’d moved. Then she’d gotten out of there fast, back up to the good old fourth floor where she had charting and following-up with Henry and patients, and–stuff. 

Sometimes she wondered if she’d imagined it had happened, but then she remembered that later on Ruby had wanted to know what she’d done to her neck. 

“My stethoscope scratched me,” had seemed like a plausible enough excuse for the almost-hickey just under the collar of her scrubs. Ruby had shrugged it off, anyway.  


And Killian had never come up to the fourth floor that day. They all knew he had been there in the hospital, but he never showed up on their floor that day. 

So, she’d never had the chance to talk with him about what had happened. Not that Emma would have brought it up with him in a thousand years, anyway.

But–they also hadn’t spoken since that day. 

Because Emma had changed her schedule. No more Tuesdays. “I go to the shooting range,” had been her excuse. Ruby had, of course, raised her neatly groomed eyebrows at that, and while she’d dropped heavy hints that “the hot Englishman thinks you transferred because of him,” Emma always managed to side-step any conversation revolving around Storybrooke’s resident famous guy. And him, she’d managed to side-step him.

Until today.

* * *

“Why don’t you like him?”  


“Who?” Emma said, clearing away Henry’s dinner tray and smiling at him. “Your appetite is good today.”  


“I’m a growing boy. Killian, why don’t you like him?”  


“I like him fine,” Emma replied, trying not to frown. She sat down at the side of his bed and reached into her lab coat for a deck of cards. Whenever she had Henry, she always tried to set aside a good fifteen minute period before shift change just to catch up. They’d never really agreed it was something they’d do, but she could tell that it was something he enjoyed, so she was always more than glad to do that for him. And maybe it was something she did for herself, too. “He’s nice.”  


“Nice,” Henry scoffed, hitting the button to lower the incline on the head of his bed to a better sitting position for cards. “Aurora says he’s so pretty for a boy she’s actually attracted to him, and every time Mary Margaret comes up from case management, she reminds me to write him thank-you cards because, and I quote, ‘he’s a rascal, but we like him anyway and want him to stick around.’ Even my mom approves, he’s like, on the short list for celebrities allowed in her son’s life, and she wouldn’t even let me meet Ed Sheeran at an awards show we were at last year. I could keep going. Like, everyone in this entire frickin’ hospital loves him except for you.”  


“Cut the deck,” Emma told him, which she knew wasn’t an answer, but she didn’t need to answer to a kid, right?  


“I think you like him,” Henry said two hands in. “I call.” He laid his aces down and grinned while Emma tossed her cards down in disgust.  


“Killian? I thought you decided I _don’t_ like him.”  


“No, I mean. _Like_ him, like him. Like, you want to go out with him, like him. Like, if he climbed up on your balcony, you’d kiss him all romantically, like him. Like, you’d defy your family’s feud with the Montagues and marry him and die all tragically because he died, like him. Like–”  


“I get it, I get it. My deal.” 

“Anyway. He definitely likes you.”  


“What makes you say that?”  


“I dunno. I hear him asking about you sometimes. One time when he was here, I tested a theory and said all loud, ‘Oh, hey, Emma!’ and he _totally_ tripped on nothing. He had this huge grin on his face and he whipped around to look, but then I was like, ‘Oh, sorry, that was Tink,’ and he looked _so_ disappointed.”  


“Huh.”  


“Anyway. I had mom’s people call his people. I asked if he’d come over today instead of tomorrow, since I’m here now.”  


Emma didn’t even know what to say to that.

“And don’t even think about coming up with some lame excuse to switch back to Tuesdays, Emma.”  


“You’re annoying, do you know that?”  


“I know,” Henry grinned. “I win again. My deal.” Groaning, Emma handed him the deck, all the while trying to come up with a good excuse to counter everything Henry had just said, but honestly? She was coming up blank.  


As Henry dealt another round, she stopped to ask herself if avoiding Killian Jones had actually done anything to quell the raging crush she’d been nursing on him for years. 

Not really.

Suddenly super tired of her own crap, Emma sighed heavily. She picked up her cards and tried to concentrate on them, but she noticed that Henry hadn’t picked up his own hand. Instead, he was looking at her with this mischievous, assessing look, and she laid her cards down and sighed internally. “What.”

“Let’s make this interesting.”  


_Regina the ballbuster corporate bitch would be so proud_ , Emma thought to herself. She knew what was coming, and still, she agreed to it, though she didn’t know why. Warily, she squinted at him and nodded. “All right.”

“If I win this hand, you start working on Tuesdays again.”  


Emma didn’t even try to dissemble. Henry was too smart, too astute. He knew why she didn’t work on Tuesdays. Actually, she kind of appreciated that he didn’t try to fudge about it. 

Sighing, she nodded. “Deal.”

Two minutes later, Henry whooped in triumph when his three jacks beat her three tens.

“Back to Tuesdays it is!”  


She never did end up telling him that she’d thrown out her two fives and a chance at a full house. She did, however, compliment on his graciousness at winning two weeks later when she went back to working the Tuesday shift.

And when Killian’s eyes had brightened in that way that made her feel like he was seeing someone perform some kind of miracle right behind her only she realized that it was just how he looked her at her, she’d smiled back and said, “Hey, Killian.”

And maybe later on when he’d been walking to his parking lot on his way to his car at about 7:45, she’d rushed to catch up with him and see if he maybe wanted to go grab a coffee.


	2. Chapter 2

Killian was a little nervous as he approached the fourth floor nursing station, though he knew that was utterly ridiculous.

She’d asked _him_ out for coffee, after all. And he’d accepted. It was hardly his fault that a snowstorm had cut their impromptu date short. And hadn’t she looked down at his mouth several times after he’d walked her to her ridiculous automobile? He thought she’d wanted him to kiss her, anyway. But he knew better to let her come to him. She was much like a stray dog, that Swan. Big, green eyes wanting to trust him yet narrowing in suspicion every time he did so much as lift his hand to brush his hair from his head.

It made him wish to run through with a sword every scoundrel who’d ever hurt her. He rather hoped she never told him names, for he was quite certain he wouldn’t be above using his connections to decimate the asshole in question.

Killian sighed and put on the smile that had once been described by some magazine as “disarming and charming,” knowing that he had to keep up the pretense that he was a shy but confident rock star, even if inside he felt as though a million hornets had taken residence in his gut. Just thinking about Emma Swan being receptive to his advances turned him to jelly.

 _Be cool, man_ , he chided himself. _She’s just a woman_.

But what a woman. A beautiful, frustrating, infuriatingly stubborn woman. 

Who’d kissed him within an inch of his life before walking away and pretending like it hadn’t happened. And then switched her entire job around just to avoid him.

And then, out of nowhere and after months of avoiding him, had up and asked him to coffee. He couldn’t figure her out, but he was hardly going to ignore such a gift. So of course he’d said yes with glee (then immediately shoved his hands into his pockets and pinched his own thighs in an attempt to at least _pretend_ to be cool). He could barely hide his surprise when she’d shown up, too, sliding in across from him at the table of the indie cafe down the street from the children’s hospital and yanking a grey beanie from her head.

That had been nearly three weeks before. He was on a small hiatus before returning to the studio to record his long-anticipated fifth album–one he continued to put off working on, but hell–the muses had deserted him and he wasn’t about to force inspiration. He knew he was in a creative rut; that’s why he was spending so much time at the hospital. Working with the children calmed him, made it easier to organize his thoughts and quell his angst.

Well, it used to. Now he had a new source of angst, and it was in the form of a spectacularly beautiful angel with a chip on her shoulder. 

The week after their coffee date, he’d half-expected Emma to have switched back to the Monday shift, but to his surprise and pleasure, she was there, offering him soft smiles and a barely-discernible “hello” as he passed. He figured she was simply trying to play it cool, like they’d been since she’d dragged him into a supply closet and upended his entire world view (and changed his stance on the eroticism inherent in secret _rendez-vous_ next to ice machines and bins full of IV bags). But every time they’d passed each other this time around, she’d met his eye with a curl of her lips. He knew it was ridiculous, but it felt like a triumph every time Emma Swan offered a bit of herself to him. Even if it was just a smile.

So when he walked into the fourth floor nursing station that day with his usual, “Hello, ladies,” looking around with unfeigned eagerness for the certain blonde nurse with a natural fight stance, he couldn’t help how much his heart sank when he didn’t see her anywhere. He glanced to the big whiteboard with all of the patients’ names on it, checking the column for “RN” and seeing no “Swan” scrawled there in all caps. 

Resignedly, he met every greeting with an automatic smile, simply listening as the charge nurse told him which rooms could use a visit from “charming and handsome rock stars.” He interrupted when she read off a name, however.

“Henry’s here? Again?”   


“Yes,” the nurse sighed. “Ruby’s got him today, she says to go in before his treatment so you don’t get him all riled up.” Nodding, he headed down the hall and to the left toward the big room Henry always had whenever he was there.  


He hated that the lad was such a frequent visitor to the hospital, much as he liked him. Henry was a good kid, much smarter than he had any right to be, and far too observant. Killian knew that Henry championed his cause with Emma, and he wondered whether the boy had anything to do with Emma’s sharp turnaround. Resolving that he’d simply ask, he rounded the doorway into Henry’s room, stopping to wash his hands before proceeding into the room. 

“Killian!”   


“Hullo, Master Mills,” he chuckled at the boy’s exuberant greeting. “Long time no see.”  


“Yeah, I think I’ll use my frequent flyer miles to go to Maui next time.”  


“Why Maui?”  


“Warmer than here,” Henry shrugged as Killian approached his bed. His eyes roved over the equipment–he was hardly an expert, but he’d been visiting the hospital for years now. Storybrooke Children’s wasn’t a top-of-the-line facility, but it did have excellent machines as well as employees. He’d come to recognize over the years whether a child’s condition was serious– _too_ many machines were never a good sign. Several small bags on the IV pole usually meant a decent infection. He’d even used his patented charm to get a nurse to explain to him what the numbers on the monitors meant–Henry’s O2 sats were a bit on the low side, which meant he was having trouble getting adequate oxygen to his lungs. With a frown, he looked at the boy, but he seemed hale enough despite the tube under his nose. His cheeks held a rosy tint, and there was excitement in his eyes.  


“So tell me about your date.”  


“Date?” Killian pulled the bedside chair over and shrugged the strap of his guitar case off his shoulder, turning to sit while placing the case on the bed next to the lad’s legs. He looked up to see a goofy and knowing grin on Henry’s face. “What date?”  


“Please,” Henry scoffed, reaching for the bed remote and pressing a button until the head of his bed began to move up. “The gossip mill in his place is alive and well. I know you met with a certain blonde nurse a while back, but I haven’t heard anything about it from either of you. So. Was it that bad?” Henry’s voice was full of sympathy, and perhaps there was note of sly amusement in there as well.  


Killian nearly choked on nothing. He flipped the clasps on his guitar case open and lifted the lid, an obvious ploy to avoid Henry’s inquisitive gaze, but he didn’t care much. Curse the boy’s observational skills!

“What’ll it be today? I’ve got the tabs for some Foo Fighters songs you might like today–”  


“Do you know _Everlong_? That’s a good one.”  


Killian narrowed his eyes and slammed the case shut. “Aye, I wouldn’t be a very good rock star if I didn’t know _Everlong_.”

“I like the lyrics. You know. ‘The only thing I’ll ever ask of you, you gotta promise not to stop when I say, “When,” she sang.’ I’m just a kid, but that seems real to me, you know? Some guy singing about a girl who kinda gives him the runaround but obviously wants him anyway.”  


“Henry. How do you know about such things? Are you dating?” Killian teased, pushing down his own discomfort. _Much_ too smart for his own good, the little shit.  


“Yeah, actually.”  


“Wait. What?” Killian stopped his absent strumming to look up at his favorite patient, whose cheeks had gone from flushed to bright red. “What’s her name? Or _his_ name?”

“Her. Violet. She’s okay.” But Killian could tell by the aw-shucks way in which Henry averted his eyes that the lass was much better than okay.   


“Does your mother know?” Killian asked with amusement, resuming the tuning of his guitar. He cocked his head to the side and twanged, hearing the slight, tinny sharpness and adjusting the knob accordingly. With one final strum he rested his heels on the chair legs and lifted his thighs, propping the guitar across his knees and looking at Henry expectantly.   


“Sort of? Violet was here visiting yesterday when my mom showed up, but she kind of ran out of here the moment Mom came in the room. Everyone’s always so terrified of her, I don’t know why.”  


“Henry,” Killian chuckled as he tried out the opening lick of _Everlong_. “You know why.”  


“I do. I just feel obligated to defend her at every turn. She isn’t terrifying to _me_.”  


“Well, _I_ wouldn’t wish to meet her in a dark alley on a bad day.”  


“I wouldn’t want that, either. She’d eat you alive.” They both chuckled at that, and Killian was returning to the opening chords when Henry spoke again. “Hey, speaking of eating you alive, have you gone to see Emma?”  


“What does that mean?” Curse his English complexion, he could _feel_ the burn in his cheeks. But how could the lad possibly know–?  


“Oh, a little birdie told me that you guys were sucking face out in the parking lot the other day.”  


“We–that isn’t–who told you–Henry. _Henry_. I was _not_ sucking face with Emma. In the parking lot the other day.” Now, in supply closets on the third floor nearly a year ago…  


“Damn,” the lad sighed. He slumped back against his pillows and coughed weakly before meeting Killian’s hard stare with a shrug. “I was kind of hoping I’d get you to admit to something good. Oh, well. Can’t win if you don’t play.”  


“You’re a devious man, Henry Mills,” Killian smirked, shaking his head while fervently wishing it were true. But no. There hadn’t been any face sucking. Or being eaten alive, for that matter, much as the prospect sounded delicious. No kissing of any kind. Well, he’d kissed the back of Emma’s hand before snatching the check from her fingers, but she’d bested him once again when she’d leaned over to brush her nose on his cheek and grabbed the check back.   


“Anyway, I’m glad to see you, but I’m kind of surprised in you, Mr. Rock Star,” Henry continued, settling in once again as he looked at Killian with an appraising eye.   


“How’s that?” Killian asked absently, settling in himself and feeling the easy flow and comfort of the music as he began once again to play. He hummed along softly with the intro, _Everlong_ being an old favorite, easy to slip into like a forgotten habit or a long-ago abandoned conversation with an old friend.   


“I mean, I was real worried for Emma when I heard she was next door at St. Leopold’s, but Ruby’s been giving me updates, and I guess the surgery must have gone really well since you’re here, and all–”  


“What!” Killian stood up immediately, nearly dropping his guitar in his consternation. “Why is Emma in the hospital!” He could hear the raised pitch in his voice, knew he was yelling, but _what the fuck_.   


“Oh, wow,” Henry murmured, looking stricken. “You really didn’t know.”  


“Henry,” Killian warned, now aware there was deep menace in his voice. The lad responded to that by cringing slightly; Killian felt a trickle of guilt attempting to infiltrate his rising panic, but he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ temper the dark fear overtaking him. “Why is Emma in the hospital.” Without being aware he’d done it, he’d already packed his guitar away, his body already angled toward the building next to the Children’s hospital.  


Henry stowed his moment of hesitation and met Killian’s eye. “She came into the ER the other day with abdominal pain. Appendicitis. No word yet on whether it burst, but I know she was freaked out because Ruby told me she was ordering the entire staff around, yelling for anyone but Dr. Whale and insisting she should be NPO in case it came to cutting into her, but–”

Killian was out the door before Henry could finish. He didn’t even realize until he was in the underground tunnel connecting the two facilities that he’d left his beloved guitar behind.

The looks of surprise and admiration didn’t register as he stormed into the main lobby of St. Leopold’s. The receptionist there did not even hesitate when he gave his name, simply smiling coyly at him and saying something about how she’d gone to see him at the Garden back in ‘14. 

“Thank you,” he told her before prodding her once again. “Emma Swan? I’ve forgotten the room number.”  


“Well, it’s only supposed to be family–”  


“Ah, but lass,” he said, dropping his voice. He leaned forward on the counter, meeting her eye and trying to quell the utter terror flowing up his throat by channeling it into that flirtatiousness the gossip rags were always going on about. “She’s asked for a special visit during her recovery. She works next door, you know. Were you aware that I donated my time to visiting the children there?” He hated using his own fame for something like this, but  _Emma was unwell_. He wasn’t really anything to her, but he’d known for a while now that if she required it of him, he’d commit a murder or worse. What was a little white lie? Besides. What if something had gone awry with her surgery? What if she hadn’t come out from the anesthesia? He’d seen enough to know there were many things that could go wrong. He’d be damned if he’d let any of those things happen to Emma, not that there was anything he could do beyond stand idly by while she was in pain.   


Cursing the fact that he hadn’t gotten a real career, some actual, functional skill, like doctoring, he crooked the corner of his mouth and prayed that this receptionist would simply let him the fuck in.

“I know. We’ve been wondering when you’d come visit the adults,” the receptionist told him before reaching for her keyboard with a series of quick taps. “She’s been moved to the step-down unit. Second floor, room 209. Hold on a sec.” He waited impatiently, resisting the urge to begin drumming his fingers on the counter and watching as a printer spit out a sticker with _E. Swan, Room 209_  written across the top and then in smaller print beneath, _Killian Jones_.  


As he slapped the sticker on his thigh, he tried not to think of the satisfaction he received from seeing their two names next to each other. He couldn’t think of things like that, not when he was unsure as to her condition.

Not when he was unsure whether she’d welcome his presence in what she would likely consider a vulnerable moment. Emma Swan did not seem bloody likely to care for him seeing her in a hospital gown, but he didn’t bloody care. He needed to make sure she was going to be all right.

Ignoring the furious whispering and giggling that followed him the moment he entered the second floor main hallway, Killian followed the sign pointing to her room, knowing it was protocol to check in at the nurse’s station and not caring one whit. In fact, he was caring less and less about the proper and appropriate things to do with every step he took that wasn’t directly at Emma’s side. He had an entire argument with himself as he approached room 209, beginning with _what the hell do you think you’re doing, mate? She doesn’t want to see you, she’s made that perfectly clear over the last few years of pointed glowering and angry brows_ to _but she asked you to coffee and didn’t shy away from your stupid, stupid flirting and outrageous compliments_. 

The self-recriminations continued as he slowed down in front of room 208, suddenly shy and unsure of himself when he saw the room placard proclaiming he’d reached his destination. He peered around the corner of the doorway and was met with the curtain; sighing deeply, he edged forward until he could see just around the end of it, the steady beat of a heart monitor only slightly reassuring in that there _was_ a heartbeat. Quickly, he checked the numbers: was 135/82 high? That was high, wasn’t it? Why was her blood pressure high?

“Excuse me,” he whispered loudly at a man passing by in maroon-colored scrubs. The person turned, his eyes widening when he saw Killian standing there, pointing his thumb toward room 209. “Is she all right? Her BP seems a little high. Has anyone checked it recently?”  


“You’re Killian Jones!” the man in scrubs exclaimed a bit loudly.   


Killian registered that somewhere behind him, a heart monitor started beeping wildly, and that made him panic. Without forethought, he jumped into Emma’s room and whipped the curtain back.

Emma was lying there on the bed, looking pale and small tucked underneath one of the warmed blankets the hospital always had on hand. She hadn’t a scrap of makeup on, but that was usual for her–he could discern deep purple-green slashes beneath her eyes, but other than that, she merely looked like she was sleeping.

But again, he knew from years visiting the sick beds of children that closed eyes did not necessarily indicate wellness. The orderly in scrubs forgotten, Killian approached Emma’s bedside, cursing the squeak of his Chucks on the clean floor tile and hoping he wouldn’t wake what was hopefully nothing more than a woman tired after a major surgery.

“Oh, love,” he whispered, unable to help himself. He killed the urge to sweep her hair from her brow and instead contented himself with simply looking at her, reassuring himself that she was alive.   


Eventually, he realized his knees were starting to give and he was startled to realize he’d been standing there for quite some time. Turning his head this way and that, he saw a bedside chair that was rather similar to the ones they kept over at Children’s. Lifting it instead of pulling it so as not to make noise, he settled the chair close to Emma’s bed and sat down gently, not wishing to wake her.

Odd, that. That he felt calm and pacified simply watching her sleep.

Some time later, he heard the tell-tale squeak of a vitals machine being wheeled into the room; he sighed deeply, knowing he ought to go, but he didn’t want to. What he wanted was for her to wake up. He wanted to see the confusion in her eyes; he wanted her to furrow her brow at him, perhaps even demand an explanation for how he’d gotten into her room without permission. Berate him for abusing his celebrity status to get in. Holler in his face, tell him she never wanted to repeat their date, much less see him again. Grab his hand, squeeze it. Laugh at him. Tell him he was silly for worrying, but sweet. Ask him to sneak some hot chocolate into her room. _Anything, love_ , he’d tell her. 

_I’d do anything for you._

Really, he simply wanted to know she was awake and alive and vital. It would be enough for him.

But he knew that was selfish of him. He ought to go. Why, he’d simply abandoned Henry in his desperate and futile attempt to find out for himself whether he meant something to Emma Swan! Stupid, idiotic arse. 

The squeaking wheels stopped in the room and Killian stood, brushing at his thighs and looking down at the beautiful and alone woman lying in the hospital bed before him. He told himself he’d give her the chance to tell him what had happened, ignoring that she had no way of contacting him as she’d never asked for his phone number, and that they hadn’t made plans to see each other again. No, he knew it was up to her whether they became something. 

It didn’t stop him from hoping, of course. Hoping desperately.

He leaned over to brush his lips in her hair, being very careful not to disturb her slumber. _Good night, Emma_ , he told her in his mind.

He stood quickly and began to turn, smiling ruefully at the nursing aide poised to take her temperature and such.

“Killian.” A hoarse whisper, fingers fumbling against his wrist. He looked down at his hand, freezing in first surprise and then startled shock when she grabbed his hand.  


“Emma,” he breathed. He crouched down immediately, his eyes at a level with hers. And there it was–the grey-green slightly cloudy, her brows furrowed as she met his gaze.  


“You’re here.”   


She smiled beatifically before closing her eyes.

“I wished you would come, and here you are.”  


“Here I am,” he agreed softly. A sense of wonder stole over him as he processed her words. He felt a weak squeeze and looked down, realizing he’d wrapped her hand in his. He never wanted to let go.  


“I’m glad,” she sighed, opening her eyes and smiling lazily. She turned toward him and then winced; he felt her pain as his own, a sharp stab in his gut that he’d done something to make her hurt.  


“Love, you’ve had surgery,” he admonished gently, releasing her hand with regret and finally succumbing to the urge to brush her hair from her face. “Don’t strain yourself just yet.”  


“Right. Appendix.” She reached up and clutched her right side, flinching before sighing deeply once again. “Hurts.”  


“I know, love.”  


“I, uh. I need to take your vitals, Miss Swan,” came the aide from behind him. He’d forgotten she was there.  


With more regret than he’d ever known in his life, Killian stood, knowing he needed to let Emma rest.

“I’ll just be going–”  


Emma’s eyes popped open. She reached out to tug on his wrist once again, her eyes rheumy with pain and panic.

“You can’t leave me!”  


“I–”  


“You don’t need to leave, Mr. Jones. This won’t take long. Have a seat, you won’t even know I’m here.” The aide sounded amused as she looked him over, wheeling her contraption to the other side of Emma’s bed and going about her business. Killian looked down at Emma still clutching his wrist, torn between the knowledge that he really ought to go and the utter certainty that if he left her alone, he’d never forgive himself.

“Please stay,” she whispered.  


That decided it.

“All right,” he said softly, nodding his head as he pulled the chair with the hand that wasn’t currently being held with surprising strength by a woman he’d never be able to say “no” to.  


An hour or so later, after Emma had fallen asleep under the administration of a round of morphine, the phone at her bedside went off with a shrill, insistent ring. Unthinking, he answered, only wanting to keep her from waking, but he should have known better.

“Hello?”  


“Ha! I knew it.”  


“Henry,” Killian groaned.  


“So Emma’s surgery went just fine. If you hadn’t rushed out of here so fast, I would have told you that.”  


“Would you have?” he asked with skepticism.  


“Nah, probably not.” Killian could see the merry freckles dancing with mischief across the boy’s cheeks. “But I mean, you’re still there, so I wasn’t wrong.”  


“About what?” Killian said, smiling when Emma turned in her sleep and murmured nonsense. He brushed his fingertips across her cheek and she nuzzled into the touch; the feeling that swept over him in that moment was indescribable.  


“Jones?”  


“Hmm?”  


“Never mind. I’ll see you next week,” he heard, but he’d already tuned Henry out. A song was beginning to form in his mind, and he silently thanked Emma as she whispered against his fingertips. Without moving, he continued to compose in his head while she continued to murmur in her sleep. When he woke to her tapping his nose and telling him to go find her some Jell-o, he knew he’d be visiting the hospital much more often than every Tuesday from now on.  



End file.
